信仰的速度 K•史密斯 林木译
我不想跪着等待
在一个因等待而变得安静的房间里。
一个我们可以听到呼吸加快，
他喉咙里发出嘟囔声的房间。
我不想让兰花或一盘食物
强化寂静，
或祈祷留住他，或让他走
然后最终走向狂喜之光，
我不愿相信
在那些房间里我们相信的东西：
我们很幸运，放手，
让某个人，任何人，
拉开帷帘，把我们举回到
盲目，明亮的生活。
当你自己亲爱的父亲去世时
你在天亮之前醒来
吃了半碟的鸡蛋和玉米糊，
喝一杯牛奶。
在你离开之后，我坐在你的位置
吃完涂果酱的烤面包丁
凉鸡蛋，厚培根
泡在脂肪里，细细品味。
然后我入睡了，太年幼还意识不到
在你面前的路是多狭窄艰难
所有房屋紧闭，夜晚
几朵云浑浊如冷咖啡
你去了一星期，我们是谁，
没有你的清晰形象阻挡
任何使我们恐惧的东西？
一个邻居送来蛋糕，我们吃了
烤鸡，蜂蜜火腿。
我们低头祈祷
你会平安归来，
确信你会。
暴风雨让什么自由？他们慢走时灵魂脱离肉体
城里的穷人学会：假如没有地方躺下，行走
晚上，街道就是地雷区。只有汽笛淹没哭泣。
如果你被跟踪，不要放弃，奔跑——不——行走
我走过亮着窗户的夜晚，墙内传出笑声。
街灯，行为出格的星光下仅有的脚步。没有其它东西在行走
当我们相信有阴间，我们为我们的亡灵埋葬财富
狗和奴仆的低贱国家，那里鬼魂身穿金袍行走。
旧情人在梦中出现，还会因每次受冷落而愤怒。表现出来。
挤满了床。入睡后我们的四肢纠缠在一起，但我们的影子在行走。
可能有朝一日活上几个季节就已足够，然后变回灰烬。
没有子女继承我们的姓名。不悲伤。生活会是短暂而空虚的行走。
我父亲不会静静躺着，不过他的腿穿着裤子和袜子。
但在他曾知道的哪些地方——现在该知道的——行走？
The Speed of Belief K. Smith
I didn’t want to wait on my knees
In a room made quiet by waiting.
A room where we’d listen for the rise
Of breath, the burble in his throat.
I didn’t want the orchids or the trays
Of food meant to fortify that silence,
Or to pray for him to stay or to go then
Finally toward that ecstatic light,
I didn’t want to believe
What we believe in those rooms:
That we are blessed, letting go,
Letting someone, anyone,
Drag open the drapes and heave us
Back into our blinding, bright lives.
When your own sweet father died
You woke before first light
And ate half a plate of eggs and grits,
And drank a glass of milk.
After you’d left, I sat in your place
And finished the toast bits with jam
And the cold eggs, the thick bacon
Flanged in fat, savoring the taste.
Then I slept, too young to know how narrow
And grave the road before you seemed—
All the houses zipped tight, the night’s
Few clouds muddy as cold coffee.
You stayed gone a week, and who were we
Without your clean profile nicking away
At anything that made us afraid?
One neighbor sent a cake. We ate
The baked chickens, the honeyed hams.
We bowed our heads and prayed
You’d come back safe,
Knowing you would.
What does the storm set free? Spirits stripped of flesh on their slow walk.
The poor in cities learn: when there is no place to lie down, walk.
At night, the streets are minefields. Only sirens drown out the cries.
If you're being followed, hang on to yourself and run -- no -- walk.
I wandered through evenings of lit windows, laughter inside walls.
The sole steps amid streetlamps, errant stars. Nothing else below walked.
When we believed in the underworld, we buried fortunes for our dead.
Low country of dogs and servants, where ghosts in gold-stitched robes walk.
Old loves turn up in dreams, still livid at every slight. Show them out.
This bed is full. Our limbs tangle in sleep, but our shadows walk.
Perhaps one day it will be enough to live a few seasons and return to ash.
No children to carry our names. No grief. Life will be a brief, hollow walk.
My father won't lie still, though his legs are buried in trousers and socks.
But where does all he knew -- and all he must now know -- walk?
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